The beanbag
chair she's claimed as her own lies pathetically empty, with her two favorite
toys lying on it, bored.
The
pen (once a training device and now her den), where she often prefers
to hang out on rainy days like today, is conspicuously empty.
My
bed, for once, is free of dog toys.
The
towels in the bathroom remain neatly folded on the rack, instead of being
pulled down onto the floor, the way Una likes to do when I leave the apartment.
Nobody
runs to the front door when there's a noise on the porch. Nobody runs
around the house wagging her tail when I come home. Nobody comes up to
me while I'm working and stares at me until I pet her. Nobody asks for
dog treats, or delicately munches on food (carried one piece at a time
across the room and eaten separately).
Nobody
gets excited every time I put shoes on, thinking we're going somewhere.
No one runs over to me when I seem upset and licks my hand, comfortingly.
And
while at first, the quiet and the lack of responsibility (no walks, no
feeding) seemed refreshing, now those are the very things I miss.
Not
the towel thing, though. I can do without that.
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